


The Missing Pieces

by Inell



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crossover, Fluff, The Quidditch Pitch: Movies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-09
Updated: 2007-06-09
Packaged: 2018-10-26 06:32:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10781496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inell/pseuds/Inell
Summary: Now came the fun part: solving the puzzle.





	The Missing Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: **A/N:** Crossover with POTC. There are spoilers through AWE. If you don’t want to be spoiled, please don’t read! Big thanks to [](http://heather11483.livejournal.com/profile)[**heather11483**](http://heather11483.livejournal.com/) and [](http://florahart.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://florahart.livejournal.com/)**florahart** for listening to my fretting and reading along as I wrote.  


* * *

The room was dark, lit only with a half dozen candles, most of which were nearing the end of their usefulness. Shadows danced on the wooden walls to the scratching of a quill against rough parchment. A squeak of a chair could be heard occasionally, usually followed by a low hum before the quill went back to work. Books covered much of the available space, neatly piled on a table and the corners of the desk, and arranged alphabetically, both by author and title, and separated by genre on numerous bookshelves. Despite the stacks of books, the room was not at all untidy or disorganized.

Hermione knew where everything was and how to find it instantly, so she didn’t particularly care what others might think of her home. It was far less cluttered than the offices of her friends or co-workers, after all. She kept books everywhere while many of the others collected silly artifacts and trinkets from their assignments abroad. She had little use for frivolous objects that had no real purpose. Besides, dusting was an awful chore, even with magic, so she was quite happy leaving such items to the others and keeping her books. Besides, the point in having a home office was to have it set up exactly like you wanted.

A glance at the clock confirmed that she should have stopped hours ago. There was really little reason to, though, as nothing awaited her except bed, and it was still too early to consider sleeping. Besides, she was very close to locating an artifact that she’d been seeking for nearly three years. Since she’d first seen a casual mention of it during research for another assignment, she’d been fascinated, and she could feel the butterflies in her belly that usually signaled she was close to a break-through on locating one of her obsessions, a rather distasteful term coined by those who didn‘t quite understand her interest in cursed items, especially those that weren‘t assignments.

That hobby had stemmed from the search for horcruxes a dozen years ago, she knew, and it was one of the few things she was grateful for after the war. When everyone else had begun rebuilding and moved on with their lives, she’d been lost and uncertain. She hadn’t taken her NEWTs, which limited her possibilities, and she’d been tired and injured after the war, so she’d not wanted to consider returning to school to complete her studies. All she’d had were the skills acquired during six years at Hogwarts, supplemented by what she’d learned during the war. She‘d focused on charms, curses, and dark magic, and her practical education in all these things was both broad and deep.

It was a chance meeting with Bill Weasley that had led her to a meeting with the goblins, who couldn’t care less what her name was, what her bloodline was, or whether she’d taken silly tests derived by wizards. They’d given her their own tests, which she’d passed, and she’d soon found herself employed as a researcher for the Department of Curse Breakers. Due to her injury, they refused to approve her actually going into the field, but they allowed her to work on research and breaking curses for smaller artifacts they’d assign her.

Perhaps it was the restlessness of not being about to travel easily or the lack of excitement that had followed years of living rather dangerously, but she’d soon taken up the pursuit of seeking cursed items she read about and challenging herself to break the curses. Since it was on her own time, the goblins couldn’t object, though she did her best to keep that particular hobby relatively quiet. It was frustrating, though, that something as simple as a defective foot would keep her from the advanced assignments, especially when she was the one who took the time and energy to do the research. So, she kept herself occupied with her hobby when she wasn't working.

In the eleven years she‘d been at this, she’d had hundreds of research cases, especially in the years immediately following the war, and she’d had over two dozen private cases. None had been as difficult and complex as her current obsession, though. If not for the notes in private journals and the sketch she’d managed to locate in a Muggle book about rumored cursed artifacts that was published in the late nineteenth century, she’d have sworn that it no longer existed. However, it had been seen as recently as 1975, so it was - it _had_ to be - still out there.

And she was so close she could practically feel it. There were notes scattered all over her desk, maps and timelines and copies of newspapers from all over the world. Together, they all combined to complete a puzzle that had occupied far too many hours of her life. There were still a few pieces missing, but if she could _finally_ locate it, she’d be able to finish this puzzle and move on to the next.

She rubbed the back of her neck and blinked a few times before peering back down at the columns of information. Information from a public auction was, surprisingly, not as public as some people might think. The higher the cost, the less public it became, in fact. The information she was researching had arrived in a plain white envelope with a typewritten label, delivered in the post that afternoon.

While she’d deny breaking the law outright, she had learned years ago that some rules were meant to be broken, especially if it was something so silly and kept her from achieving success. Fortunately, there was an employee at Caruthers Auctions who had a similar gray way of thinking, particularly when the price was right. Hermione supposed that she should feel guilty for obliviating the woman when it came time for payment, but, if she didn’t pay, the woman hadn’t broken the law nor had she. Murky, yes, but such were the lines sometimes. Besides, if she was able to break this curse, the item would be safe once again, so it was all for a good cause.

With that thought in mind, she kept scanning the information, looking at the photos as she tried to find what her research had led her to believe had been sold at Caruthers just three months ago. It was still within the grace period, from what she could determine, so the new owner should still be alive, barring random bad luck not associated with the curse; unlike some cursed items, this one seemed to take time before it began to go into effect. She‘d located four owners in the past 150 years who had owned it but given it away before a year‘s time and remained unscathed. The other owners, however, hadn‘t been so lucky. There were blank spots in her timeline, especially in the early eighteenth century, but the results spoke for themselves. It was definitely cursed.

When she turned the page again, her gaze dropped to the fourth line down. Since she didn’t believe in providence, she refused to consider that her eyes were drawn by an unknown force. Instead, she focused on the small photograph and felt goose pimples break out on her arms. She read through the brief description and then read it again carefully, examining the details and comparing the information with her notes, before she studied the actual photograph. She let out the breath she’d not realized she was holding and leaned back in her chair.

She’d finally found it.

**********

That had certainly been more difficult than expected.

Well, difficult wasn’t entirely accurate. A right pain in the arse was more appropriate. Even after four days of planning, the acquisition of the cursed sword hadn’t gone simply. Hermione didn’t consider it stealing, because, really, she was saving the owner’s life. Besides, he now had a nicely Transfigured replica, so he’d probably never even realize it was gone.

Instead of easily gaining access to the estate outside of Edinburgh, she’d found herself faced with a complicated Muggle alarm system, two ridiculously large dogs, and another alarm on the room where it had been kept. Magic could only go so far, and she’d had to think quickly and use several charms to break through everything. If Harry ever found out, he’d threaten to lock her in her house, she had no doubt. It was fortunate, then, that she had no intention of ever telling him.

It was worth it, though. As soon as she’d seen the sword, she’d known it was cursed. Three years of obsession was rewarded in those moments, and it was extremely satisfying to confirm that her suspicions were correct. Since she hadn’t had the opportunity yet to examine it and to determine what curse, or curses, were used, she didn’t dare touch it, which meant she’d had be extremely careful nicking it. That wasn’t as easy as one might assume, but she’d finally managed to get it home.

Now it was lying across the end of her desk, and she was sitting in her chair staring at it. It was a beautifully made sword; even she could tell that, and she wasn’t very knowledgeable about such things at all. According to her research, it had been forged in the late seventeenth century by a blacksmith, William Turner, in Port Royal, Jamaica, as a commission for a Governor Swann of that territory. It had been given to a Commodore Norrington, who disappeared a couple of years later, rumored to have died at sea. After that, the sword had been lost from any history that she’d managed to locate until it reappeared again in Barbados in the early eighteenth century.

From there, she had a clear provenance, with a new record of it every few decades until its recent sale in London to a private collector. During that three hundred year period, she had a long list of owners who had met an untimely demise within the second year of ownership. Many had actually died by the sword, itself, which made it even more fascinating. Given the location of its origin, she wasn’t entirely uncertain that there wasn’t island magic used in the curse, which would require even more research because that wasn’t a subject that she’d ever studied.

One more piece of the puzzle was in place, but there was still more to learn. It wouldn’t be complete until she’d managed to break the curse, and it simply became a well-crafted sword. At which time, she’d sneak back into the owner’s home and remove the Transfigured copy, since she certainly had no interest in having a sword lying about. Her interest lay in finding the missing pieces, breaking the curse and then moving on to the next challenge.

After staring at the sword for awhile, she shook her head slightly and looked away. It had been almost hypnotic, drawing her attention until she’d drifted into thoughts of sword fights and island sun. She ran a hand over her face, practically able to smell gunpowder and hear the sound of cannons firing. It was obvious that she needed to eat something, since she’d skipped lunch earlier in order to work on her plan of acquisition. Once she had made herself a sandwich, she sat back down and reached for a book, smiling as she picked up her quill.

Now came the fun part: solving the puzzle.

**********

It had taken two years and ten months to locate the sword, longer than any other item in the past. Hermione should have known that it would logically take longer to break the curse than usual. She’d foolishly assumed that it would be something she could decipher relatively quickly with hard work, determination, and research. Instead, five weeks after acquiring the sword, she was still attempting to break its spell.

All her free time was spent reading and studying up on old magic that she’d rarely even researched, as well as the oldest of island magic. The latter was rarely written, which made it extremely difficult to find material to analyze. She’d eventually managed to locate an employee at Gringotts with a specialty focus on Caribbean magic who didn’t mind answering vague questions.

It was useless, though, because nothing had been the necessary piece of information she needed to break the curse. It was unlike anything she’d ever dealt with, and that was saying something considering she’d been dealing with cursed artifacts since she was seventeen and her thirtieth birthday was approaching sooner rather than later. It had reached a point where she was considering doing the unthinkable - asking for help.

She couldn’t bring herself to do that yet. Not when there were still possible solutions that she could research herself. If worse came to worst, she’d owl Bill, but she _really_ didn’t want to admit to defeat. Especially not to Bill, who would probably mention it to Ron, who would never let her forget the failure, even if it was in a teasing way he had no idea drove her as crazy as it did.

No, she’d do this on her own, if at all possible. Besides, she liked the challenge, even if it was frustrating. After working for another hour, she sighed and closed the book. It was past eleven, and she’d not yet eaten dinner. She had tomorrow off, at least, since she’d finished her last assignment from work and owled off that afternoon. It was great having her own schedule with whatever hours suited her best.

The state of her cabinets was cause for concern. She tried to remember the last time she’d been to the corner market, but it couldn’t possibly have really been two weeks. There was a tin of soup and a box of crackers that proved to be stale when she took a bite of one. She was out of milk, cheese, and eggs. God, this was just pathetic. It was too late to go out now, but she certainly had to find time during her research to do so tomorrow.

She heated the soup and discovered that stale crackers weren’t so awful when they were soggy in her soup. It wasn’t the best dinner in the world, but it was rather usual for her these days. Unless she had to go out with friends, which was rarer the older she got, she ate home alone, and it was illogical to cook anything elaborate. Her mind kept drifting back to the sword as she sat on the sofa with her bowl of soup. What was she missing?

From experience, she knew there had to be _something_ eluding her. This was far too complex a curse for it to just be one detail, as it often tended to be, but she had the nagging feeling that she was missing something obvious. It was rather annoying considering the sheer number of hours that she’d spent poring over this sword, even before she’d confirmed that it was cursed, and she was beginning to lose her patience with the whole matter.

After she finished eating, she got up and went back into the kitchen. She washed dishes, tidied up, and refilled her glass of juice before she went back to her office. The sword was still there, drawing her attention as soon as she stepped inside, and she childishly stuck her tongue out at it. “Very mature, Hermione,” she muttered, reaching up to push her hair out of her face as she wondered if talking to herself was yet another signal that was either losing her mind or very lonely, or possibly both.

Instead of sitting down to start researching again, she walked to the window and looked outside. It was raining and cool for spring, but the moon was full and there weren’t many clouds in the sky, so she found it quite lovely. “What am I not thinking about?” she mused, tapping her finger on the glass as she thought back over her attempts and research. She sighed and turned away from the window, starting to slowly pace as she analyzed every piece of information that she had catalogued in her mind.

She had been pacing for some minutes when she heard a crash outside. Startled, she turned quickly, cursing under her breath when her hip caught the edge of the desk as her leg reacted badly to the sudden movement. She saw the sword shake as the desk moved and instinctively reached for it when it started to fall. She managed to catch it before it hit the floor and quickly put it back on the desk, looking down at her hands and seeing where she’d cut herself. She hadn’t realized she’d gripped it that tight. Before she could think about it too much, she remembered the crash and hurried to the window to peer outside.

Two automobiles had collided down at the corner, probably sliding on the rainy streets, or not paying any attention since it was midnight and most folks were in bed sleeping by this time of night. Her palms were stinging from where she cut herself on the blasted sword, and she looked down at them with a frown. There was a faint trace of blood, but it didn’t look like they’d scar, so she murmured a countercharm to protect them, just in case there was some kind of transference from the sword. Her analysis hadn’t shown any indication that it was actually ‘in effect’ until it had been in an owner’s possession for a certain amount of time, but a cursebreaker could never be too cautious.

Of course, she’d already done something incredibly stupid by reaching for it in the first place. Cutting her palms, even lightly, wasn’t as poorly done as reaching for a cursed object with an unknown curse and origin. She knew better and should have used magic, as she had in past situations. It was ridiculous to think the sword had called to her. Soon, she’d be roaming around talking about nonsense just like Trelawney. She shuddered at the thought and decided that this piece of information would be best forgotten because she wasn’t about to admit to making such an amateurish mistake.

She turned away from the window and took a few steps before she stopped suddenly. The sword was still on her desk where she’d set it, but something had obviously happened. Maybe she’d drifted off to sleep while researching? It wouldn’t be the first time she’d done so, waking with ink on her cheek and her hair messier than normal. By having the thought that she must be asleep, she realized that she had to be awake, because no one dreaming was likely to have a conscious thought of doing so. It wasn’t at all logical.

Granted, this current situation wasn’t at all logical, either. She wasn’t sleeping. Which meant she was awake and there was a man lying on the floor by her desk. A man that she’d never seen before, hadn’t invited inside, and apparently believed himself to be a guest at a costume party, if the powdered wig that was hanging precariously off his dark hair and the crisp red uniform of old was any indication.

Why was there a man in a costume sitting on her floor in her heavily warded flat? She was stunned for a moment, simply standing in mid-step and blinking at the rather large man as he leaned against her desk. Bleeding on her floor. Oh, buggering hell. He was bleeding on her floor! He groaned and shifted, raising his head slightly until piercing green eyes were looking dazedly up at her.

“Who are you, Madam?” he rasped softly. Before she could say anything, he coughed and his eyes rolled back before he passed out.

There was an unconscious, bleeding man on her floor. “Oh, bloody hell,“ she muttered before she hurried over to find out where he was bleeding and to see if she could help stop it. She’d figure out who he was and how he got there once she knew he wasn’t going to die. She certainly didn’t want to explain _that_ to her superiors or the Aurors.

As she knelt down beside him, she glared at the sword on her desk. Somehow, she knew it had to be at fault. However, there was time to think about that later. Right now, there was an unconscious man lying beside her awaiting her attention.

End

 

 

 

Note: Historical events might have been slightly altered to reflect fictional characters instead of the real people to hold up POTC canon. Governor Swann instead of Governor Morgan, etc.


End file.
